We crossed into Mexico, the nearest town and our end destination Mexicali five miles off. Here was a featureless area, easy to get lost in. Withered shrubs. Fat cactuses. Stony roads that led nowhere.
Missy’s hired hands set about dismantling the ramp.
She took the steel lockbox onto her lap and picked the lock. Inside were five of the largest emeralds I’d ever seen. They must’ve been worth ten million dollars.
“He tricked us, Daddy. Eduardo played us.”
I’d lost a lot of blood and had a tourniquet on my leg. The bullet had gone through the meat of my thigh and somehow missed the femoral artery.
“I’m bleeding,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.”
“He lied to us. You know I can’t stand liars.”
“I can’t stand either. Literally. Still bleeding here.”
“There’s a veterinarian I know nearby.”
“While you’re at it gonna get me neutered too?”
• • •
Pale yellow walls. In a room now. Hot, too hot. I kicked the bed sheets off. Body flamed.
I cremate.
Incinerate.
I am napalm.
Missy dabbed a damp cloth against my forehead and the drapes ghosted in the blowtorch breeze. This hotel room stank of sourness and sick. Missy sat next to me on the bed.
“You’ve got a fever, Daddy. It’s the infection. You’re fighting it. Get some rest.”
My voice croaked like a bullfrog. Missy gave me water and I wanted to douse myself in it or I’d catch alight. She gifted me a few sips and took the glass away.
My leg wound crawled like fire ants. It had been stitched and smelt like spoilt milk.
• • •
Almost six o’clock. I’d been in bed a day and a half, and decided I’d been static too long—that’s how you get caught, get dead.
The sky stormed and crashed like timpani. Rain daggered down and muscled through the vacancies in the rotten wooden window frame. This hotel room carried a distinct Bates Motel vibe.
If we had to, we could make a stand here, and at least I’d be able to stretch out on a bed in the meanwhile. I sure hoped Missy had slept because she looked worn and stretched and pinched thin. More than anything I wanted to curl up next to her and forget all this was happening. All I could think of was a shower. I needed icy water to crave it all away, freeze the blacktop from my skin. Instead I stared at the ceiling where a jagged crack ran its length cleaving it in two, a bit like the Mississippi.
Missy changed my dressing because the bullet wound had been oozing. She sprayed it with iodine which stung to high heaven but I couldn’t let her see it hurt.
I am rock.
Solid granite.
Unflinching.
She squirted more iodine. I laughed. She took it as a challenge.
“Daddy, you don’t yelp some, I’ll have to put it in your eye.”
“Won’t matter. They trained me not to feel.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed it is.”
“You don’t feel nothing?”
She leaned across, bosom in my face, and scenting of wild daisies. I embraced her, took her closer but she shrugged me off.
“Hope you enjoy being a rock.”
The phone rang and she lifted the receiver. I took it.
“We know you’re mad at us,” the man said. “But you gave us no choice, Jackson. We want the emeralds. They’re ours by rights.”
He sounded almost apologetic. The grenades I had lobbed at him during the escape must’ve changed his tune, and I guess my reputation held some sway. Although, I’d speculate this coward much preferred to finish me off from distance.
“Come on in this room,” I said, “see what happens.”
“Just want what’s ours back. Give me the stones and I guarantee your safety. Eight o’clock, leave them outside your room or we’re coming in with the heavy artillery.”
• • •
A scripture quotation that hung in a frame on the wall said, ‘I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.’ The accompanying illustration showed a pair of praying hands clutching a candle.
Missy stopped reading her cell phone screen and set it on the hotel bed. It was seven o’clock.
“News report says them stones were heisted in DC a month back.”
I said, “Eduardo showed me the lockbox contents in his study. I saw only papers inside. Must’ve swapped the box out when I turned my back.”
“He tricked us into moving stolen objects,” she said. “And them’s his crew been shooting at us. Eduardo paid us over the odds because he figured his disgruntled crew, the ones he double-crossed, would be taking potshots at us.”
I noticed the wild glint in her powder-blue eyes.
“No, not a way, Missy. Don’t be thinking that.”
“I want an apology from Eduardo.”
“An apology?”
“He lied. I hate liars. I deserve an apology.”
“I’m the one been shot. Don’t I get a say?”
“What do you want to say?”
“We’ve a whole heap of gemstones here. What’s to stop us keeping them?”
“I despair, Daddy, sometimes I do. You’ve got brains, yes you have. But they don’t always work. We can’t keep them gems. It ain’t right.”
“I’ll refer you back to the bullet hole in my leg.”
“We didn’t earn them. And we’re not stealing them. We’re not thieves. We had a deal with Eduardo to deliver his lockbox and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Did I just have a stroke? Deliver them? After him lying to us, playing us for a fool?”
“You want me to give you a matching hole in that other leg?”
“Nope.”
“Then we’re committed to this assignment,” she said. “Eduardo will get his steel lockbox, as promised.”
• • •
We parked opposite a squat white adobe building where a double rainbow had formed in the slow drizzle illuminated by the setting sun.
Missy said, “Wonder what it means?”
We hadn’t been followed to Eduardo’s home. Out here, on the edge of Mexicali, the housing had sprung into existence recently with no aesthetic consideration, and was a jumble of huts and shacks stacked each on top of the other like something from some Asian slum. Almost medieval with its narrow streets.
The evening darkened by degrees into the hazy spectrum of gray and the sky drafted with ill-humor. It would soon crack again but for now there was a void of soundlessness that jangled my nerves like a steel guitar. It was half-seven. Something told me that if the gemstones weren’t outside my room at eight, Eduardo’s would be hit next.
Four armed guards manned the perimeter of this property. I entered alone while Missy kept the engine running.
It was disorientatingly dark inside. The surface of a wall looked like it had been smeared with effluent and I knew somebody had died here recently. A guard led the way into an unlit hallway, narrow and twisting to confound intruders.
Inside the room was Eduardo, a wedge-shaped man in his fifties with a greying mustache. He noticed the steel lockbox and extended his hand. He was unarmed. Big mistake. I had entered weaponless but the guard next to me had a nice submachine gun, so I struck him next to the ear at the jaw and had his gun before he collapsed to ground.
• • •
Missy drove into town and it was almost eight o’clock. Eduardo knew not to put up a fight and had elected to submit immediately. With a gun to his head I was able to get out without having to kill a soul. I don’t like wet work.
“I will give you all the money you want,” Eduardo said. “Double what I was going to pay you.”
“It’s too late for money,” I said. “ I’d never have taken this job had I known you were a bank robber and a thief. I’d have said no to the job. No matter how much money.”
“But you were willing to transport my deeds, items I had concealed from the IRS.”
<
br /> “That’s different,” I said. “They’re your deeds. You don’t want to keep it in the country, fine. But I’m not a thief. I don’t steal. And I don’t appreciate being put in a jackpot.”
“You crossed us, Eduardo, yes you did.”
“Where are you taking me?” he said. “To the authorities?”
Not exactly.
• • •
Missy and me were waiting in the pickup outside the El Rancho hotel when Nine Federal Police cars crisscrossed the street. Wind of a huge robbery bust had attracted half the on-duty officers. We had left Eduardo hog-tied in the room. His ex-crew arrived on time and shot off a few fireworks but the cops caught them all in one place. Five handcuffed men were being led into the street and an officer had secured the lockbox of gemstones.
“Eduardo looks a bit peaky.”
“Sure does. He might just regret his trickery after an unsupervised night in the cells with his old friends.”
“Missy, remind me never to cross you.”
We were the only gringos in Mexicali which was something pressed that needed to be remedied.
“You any bright ideas how to get back into the US? Forgot to bring my fake passport.”
“Daddy, you can fly an ultralight, right?”
Looking For the
Death Trick
Bracken MacLeod
The cutoff denim skirt rode up over Honey’s hips, exposing her ass as she bent over to get the attention of a driver slowly passing by. Although the men she signaled couldn’t see from where they sat, Comfort and his top earning girl—his bottom bitch—Chai, insisted she show ass every time she leant into a car window. “For the customers still rollin’ up,” Comfort said. She did what she was told and didn’t try to pull the fabric down, flashing her ass and pussy at the girls waiting behind her. It didn’t bother Honey too much to show pink, but the other girls were always looking for a way to get ahead, get closer to top of the food chain. It wasn’t like the movies; they weren’t a sisterhood or a tribe. If she unconsciously displayed some modesty, word would move up the food chain and she’d pay for not marching in perfect step.
She didn’t have much of a figure, but a lot of guys liked the girl next door look. That skinny, hasn’t-quite-grown-out-of-being-a-tomboy-but-is-trying look worked for her surprisingly well. She had long, dishwater-blond hair and wore “natural” make-up. Her tight camisole tops left her shoulders bare so the johns could see her freckles—if they could tear their eyes away from her nipples. Many of the men who trawled the block were looking for something familiar they couldn’t have at home. The neighbor’s daughter. The babysitter. The day care teacher. All forbidden fruit, juicy and ripe and hanging low on the tree waiting to be plucked and fucked—if only it wouldn’t wreck their lives. She looked the part. All except for her hands. They were bony with big blue veins and she chewed her cuticles, leaving most of her fingernails with blood crusted around them. She kept her hands out of sight as much as possible.
She filled a niche in her pimp’s business model. The suburban tourist. Comfort tried to convince her she was doing a public service. Saving other girls from what had driven her out of the ‘burbs into his embrace. She was a protector, Comfort said. “Keepin’ those innocent at-home bitches from gettin’ preyed upon. You a one girl rape prevention program, Honey.”
He called her Honey because she was his “golden girl.” “My ray of sunshine at night,” he’d say, his words fat with hollow praise that filled the empty spaces in her heart.
Other girls on the stroll didn’t have the luxury of looking like a type. Or rather, they looked like the type they were: drive-through convenience. A quick suck or fuck in the alley for someone with a hard-on in a hurry. Those girls wore tight lace outfits not much more concealing than lingerie. A few kept it even simpler, opting for a bra and thong under a big coat. Drive by and they opened their petals like moon flowers, blooming in the light of the streetlamps.
The car slowed and Honey got a glimpse of a face in shadow. White. Middle age. Athletic, going to seed. What she looked for was whether a john made eye contact. And how. If he looked her in the eyes, she could get him to stop. If he looked too hard, she might not be able to get him to stop when it mattered. It was the john angry with his wife or girlfriend who wanted to pin a working girl to prove something to “those bitches” who was trouble. The men needing to express power and virility were the ones who liked to hear Honey gag, hear her gasp when they shoved it in dry. Those were the ones who all wanted to ride bareback. They paid extra for that privilege.
So did she. Usually with abrasions and tears.
The man beckoned her with a thick finger. She stood up, not pulling the skirt down, making sure he got a good look at her bald pussy as she walked toward his car. Honey leaned over again, resting her forearms on his windowsill. “Wanna date, Daddy?” she asked.
His face contorted briefly before his neutral expression returned. The change had been so subtle, so brief, that Honey couldn’t tell whether she’d imagined it or not. Either way, it made her regret approaching the vehicle. She was preparing to shove off the car and let him roll on down the road when he said, “How much?”
“It depends, lover. What do you want?” she asked, delivering her line, locked into the role that the Director expected her to perform. He had to tell her he wanted to fuck for money if they were going to continue the play.
“I want the blue discount,” he said pulling back his sport coat to reveal the gold badge clipped to his belt.
“I seen fake badges before.”
“This one’s the real deal.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I can take you off the stroll for the night, book you and let you go in the morning, or you can come with me for a few minutes and get paid the rest of the night. Either way you’re getting in the car.” His expression didn’t change again—he kept his mask in place—but the last sentence held all the threat the fleeting shadow that had passed over his face promised a second earlier. Another man saying one thing and meaning something else. Get in the car or I’ll give your pimp a reason to tune you up for lightening his roll. It was like they had their own silent language always running under what you could hear them saying.
She opened the door and slipped in.
“Good girl.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Pull around to that alley so Chai don’t think I’m a rat.”
“Chai?”
“You know Comfort, but not his bottom bitch? You ain’t vice.”
“Nope. Homicide.” He put the car in gear and asked where she wanted him to park. She silently pointed toward the alley a half block away. He pulled into the gap between buildings and drove until she told him it was good enough. He backed the car into a berth next to a dumpster and killed the lights, but left the engine running. The smell of trash fermenting in the humid heat of the night floated into the car through the vent. She thought about pushing the recircle button on the air conditioning, but had learned long ago about messing with a john’s controls. Instead, she hoped his cock smelled clean. Sometimes the odor of the garbage dumpster was preferable to that of the man in the driver’s seat.
Honey knelt on the seat, leaned over, and ran a hand over his crotch, squeezing gently, trying to work him up so she could get back on the track under the relative safety of the streetlight. He grabbed her wrist and set her hand back in her own lap. “I said I want to talk.”
“About what? You too cheap for therapy?”
“About this guy.” He pulled a photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. She reached for the overhead light switch. He deflected her hand, pulling a small penlight from his pocket and shining it on the picture. “You seen him?” he asked.
“No. I don’t know. All y’all look alike to me.”
“Where are you from that ‘all y’all’ is something people say?”
“I’m from up that block,” she said, pointing out the window.
The man sighed heavily and said, “
Fair enough. Take another look at the guy. Study his face real hard. You recognize him or not?” He shone the light on the glossy paper, trying to get an angle that didn’t obscure the image with glare. It was a grainy black and white, but taken from a close angle. The man in the picture had a goatee, odd shaped sport sunglasses, and wore a baseball cap. His mouth was open, but it wasn’t to say anything. It just looked like he breathed with his lips parted.
The creep in the photo was as familiar as anyone else she’d ever seen—white guy with a chin beard and a Red Sox cap. Almost every single john who rolled down her block looked like him. She said so.
“This one is special,” the cop said.
“Nobody’s special.”
“He is. Believe me. You see this guy, you call me.” He handed her a business card. A gold shield like the one he’d flashed at her was embossed on the card next to the logo for the Boston Police Department. Beside the shield it read,
LIEUTENANT DETECTIVE
WILLIAM P. DIXON
HOMICIDE UNIT
The precinct address was listed on the bottom left opposite his office number, fax, and direct dial. “What’s the P stand for?” she asked.
“Pepper.” She laughed. He didn’t even grin. “What’s your name?”
“Honey.”
“What’s the name your parents gave you?”
She blinked a few times. He hadn’t asked for her “real” name—“the one her parents gave her.” Honey was as real as a name got for her any more. “I was... my name is Mindy.”
“Well Mindy, you keep that picture. You see this prick, call the number on the back of my card.” She turned the small white square over. He’d written a cell phone number on the reverse side in blue ink. “Give me a description of his car and the plate, but do not get in. You listening?”
“I hear you,” she said, playing with a strand of her hair.
“Help yourself, Honey. I’ve got only so many eyes I can put on the stroll.”
Shotgun Honey Presents: Locked and Loaded (Both Barrels Book 3) Page 3
